Love Limitlessly
by thelittleboffin
Summary: John Watson is successful businessman, forced into riches and power by his late father who gifted him Watson Enterprises. However, his boring, routine life changes when he meets male prostitute Sherlock Holmes - cunning, intelligent, and beautiful. Little did he know that a simple business proposal would lead to love. (Based roughly off the 1990 film Pretty Woman.)


John Watson had been an army doctor, and a soldier. He had shot a gun, a big gun for God's sake, he had killed people, bad people, and even saved a few. He had been shot, flown to a hospital by helicopter, suffered severe post-traumatic stress disorder, and dealt with the onslaught of nightmares it brought with it.

And all of that, all of it, the horror, the pain, the memories, couldn't be worse than the horrific party he had been forced to attend. It couldn't be worse than the women, all done-up in their dresses, flipping their hair at him and giggling amongst themselves at his availability, or the men shaking his hand and congratulating him on being so rich, so powerful, so glorified.

It wasn't even him. He'd been in charge of the company for a little less than a year, having been forced into ownership after his father had a heart attack and found himself in a coffin beneath the Earth shortly after his 73rd birthday. Of course, ignorant as he was, John didn't pass up the opportunity to make a little more money – working in a small clinic on the corner of a lonely street didn't exactly make good pay – and so he signed the contract. He just didn't expect to be a millionaire by the end of the week. Hell, his father had never shared any of his profit with John – maybe because he simply intended on passing Watson Enterprises over to him one day. Clearly because either way: John was rich, infamous (or so it seemed) and utterly irritated by it.

"Mr. Watson," An enthusiastic voice greeted him from behind as he downed the rest of his champagne, glaring at those around him mingling so very comfortably. He turned and smiled a faux smile at the man approaching him.

Chubby, small eyes maximized by large glasses, receding hairline – he knew him, didn't he? _Samford? Lanford?_

"Mike Stamford," The man extended his hand in greeting, grinning as John leaned forward to shake it, "We met at last year's polo match. Your father introduced us, God rest his soul."

John Watson nodded and sighed inwardly, relieved he'd introduced himself, shaking his open palm politely, "Stamford. Right. I remember."  
 _Of course he didn't remember._

"I hear you're looking to buy Trevor Industries," Mike pointed out, taking a sip from his own champagne glass, and lifting his brows at John, as though asking for the man to elaborate on the current topic at hand.

John shrugged, "Just following in my father's footsteps. I think it's a wise decision."

Stamford grunted his agreement, and glanced at the crowd, "Certainly. There's good profit there. You'd be a fool not to chase after it."

John nodded stiffly and sighed, preparing himself for an interrogation of his future endeavors.

Some time later, following what seemed like an eternity of endless, pointless questions, Mike was striding off with a respectful smile and a heavy pat on the back that annoyed John to no end. Before anyone else _"interested in his future plans"_ decided to show up, John was darting out of the fancy lobby, leaving behind the posh drinks he could barely say the names of, the salty appetizers he didn't bother to try, and the people of whom were so fake he was sure if he threw a rock at them it would bounce right off – plastic and predictable.

With a sigh, he breathed in the fresh, brittle, cold air of London's autumn weather, wrapping his navy blue suit jacket tighter around himself, and searching for the limousine that had brought him to the uppity four story mansion, rented out for the party itself, only to instantly groan in frustration upon noticing it trapped between a multitude of parked cars.

Reaching into his jacket, he yanked out his cell phone, quickly dialing Wilkes' number – his lawyer and a man who had become quite a close friend throughout all of this, no matter how power hungry he was – before lifting the device to his ear, and waiting.

 _"John?"_

"Seb, I need to borrow your car," John snapped, anxiously running a hand through his graying brown hair, and adjusting his tie.

 _"My car?"_

"Yes, your car. I need the keys."

 _"You're leaving already?"_

John rolled his eyes and huffed out an aggravated breath, "Seb, the limousine is blocked off by a bunch of cars and –" John turned, hearing a door open and close behind him and turning to see Wilkes bounding over, black hair smoothed back with copious amounts of gel, per usual, and black suit pristinely pressed.

John hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket, eyeing his friend sharply before shrugging and letting out a long irritated sigh.

"Do you even know how to drive a stick-shift?" Wilkes asked, frowning at John as he tossed the man the keys to his brand new Mustang – an older model, but a beautiful one – something he cherished more than any of his previous romantic endeavors.

"Of course," The army doctor replied, dropping himself into the front seat, inserting the key, and starting up the engine, zooming off before his friend could thoroughly invest himself in refusing him.

* * *

"We should get ourselves a pimp," Irene mused, blowing smoke into the air as she milked one of her last cigarettes, "Then we wouldn't even have to worry about rent money."

Sherlock scoffed, breathing in the putrid scent and craving a drag of his own but fighting off the temptation – some clients didn't enjoy the smell, and right now he needed every client he could get. "What, and end up in a dumpster?" He questioned, arching a bored brow, and leaning back against one of the lampposts lining the busy, downtown street.

Irene rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, "Not if we played our cards right, did as we were told."

Sherlock shook his head and ran a hand over his gelled back hair, smoothing out every loose strand, "So let them control us and take everything we're worth. No thank you." He then swallowed and glanced shyly at Irene, biting his lip and frowning, "How do I look?"

The woman before him smiled, cherry red lips stretching genuinely as she leaned forwards, reaching for his cheap, black, leather jacket and grasping it by the lapels, "Sexy." She smirked and eyed his black v-neck and charcoal colored skinny jeans, of which fit tightly, not leaving much to the imagination in her honest opinion, which, of course, was beneficial in Sherlock's case. Nodding her approval, she looked up at him, arching a brow as she lifted a hand to tuck a stray strand of dark brown hair behind his ear, "I miss the curls though."

Sherlock huffed and shoved her hand away gently, "Yes, well, I need something to call my own."

Irene chuckled softly, and took another drag of her cigarette, "And that's your curls, huh?"

Sherlock winked, and then turned away from her, crossing his arms as he watched a few cars drive by, some of the drivers popping their heads out the window to stare the two of them down, as though deciding whether or not they wanted to pull over and pay for a bit of fun. Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back against the metal post, shutting his eyes for a moment, listening to the busy night and shivering a little in the cold breeze.

Irene, however, interrupted his dozing, smacking his arm excitedly until he opened his eyes and glared at her smirking, conniving expression.

"Heads up," She grinned and gestured toward a _very_ expensive, antique Mustang whirling around the street corner, driver male from what Sherlock could make of him, "You're up, good lookin'."

Sherlock glanced at her, eyes narrowed, "What makes you think he'll want a man?"

The woman sighed tiredly, and dropped her cigarette, putting it out with the heel of one of her black, knee-high boots, "Look at the car. You don't get much gayer than that," She paused and shrugged, winking his way and smirking confidently, "Except for you of course."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smoothed a hand over his hair, inhaling sharply and glancing at his friend, "Fine."

"Don't take less than a hundred, and call me when you're done," Irene warned, ever a motherly presence, and Sherlock nodded to her request, smiling a small smile before striding suggestively towards the red car.

* * *

Turns out, John actually had no idea how to drive a stick shift.

He thought it'd be simple – easy enough, just a couple gears, here and there, nothing too bad, not too difficult. He was wrong. Utterly, utterly wrong.

God. All he wanted was to be back in his hotel room, watching a Bond film, ordering room service, perhaps have some wine, maybe something to snack on, and just forget about the stress of his job, of his duty, of his world. He just wanted to relax, and that was fucking impossible seeing as though he was constantly starting and stopping and starting and stopping and good fucking God he needed to pull over.

He yanked the steering wheel to the side, rolling to a stop along a nearby curb, and groaned, shutting the car off and leaning back in his seat, roughly pulling his tie from his neck and tossing it behind him. Just his luck. Just his fucking luck. Stopped, on the side of an empty road in – John glanced around, and cursed aloud, shaking his head in utter, pure rage. Brixton. And not a good part of Brixton. Fucking hell.

You can do this, John.

 _First gear should be here somewhere_ , he growled in frustration.

"Hello."

The deep, baritone startled him upright as he turned to his side and saw a man hunching over the car's rolled down window, a sharp pale face smiling mischievously towards John, his features casted with shadows in the dark, starless night.

John Watson bobbed his head towards him in greeting and cleared his throat, "Hello."

The man grinned at his simple response and smoothed a hand over his gelled hair, leaning further through the window and glancing around at the car's fancy interior, "Need some company?"

Oh. _Oh._ Despite himself, John blushed, swallowing a little nervously and shaking his head, a polite smile gracing his soft features, "No, thank you. Just directions."

The man at the window smirked and shrugged, "Fine. Five pounds."

John's jaw dropped and he scoffed loudly, shaking his head at the man, both amused and bewildered, "That's ridiculous."

"Oops," The man purred sarcastically, "Price just went up to ten."

John's jaw dropped as he leaned further towards the window, gazing up at the man in utter disbelief, "You've got to be bloody joking. You can't charge me for directions."

The tall man bit his lip and smirked, patting the car door with amusement and turning around, leaning his weight against the vehicle, one hand going to his hair again. "Of course I can," He mused, and glanced over his shoulder to wink at John, "I'm not lost."

John sat there in shock and amazement, even a hint of admiration gracing his expression for the man at his window, rear end, clad in black skinny jeans, pressed against the metal frame of the red Mustang. John Watson laughed softly to himself, rolled his eyes and sighed, "Fine. Alright."

Instantly, the man yanked the door open and slid inside, leather meeting leather, as he glanced at John, smirk in place and brows arched, his features screaming how very pleased he was with himself. Now that John saw him, this close, simply a cup holder away, he took note of how very beautiful this stranger was. His face was all angles, sharp lines with smooth edges. His cheekbones were bold and prominent, his eyes bright and an unidentifiable hue – green maybe, but also blue, and gold, and silver – and his hair wasn't black, but a dark shade of brown, like rich chocolate, and straight, pressed down by copious amounts of gel. He was absolutely beautiful, and John wasn't ashamed to admit it.

Clearing his throat, John reached into his pocket, pulling out a twenty and glancing back over at the man, "Got any change?"

Tall, Dark, and Handsome grinned, slowly leaning closer to John, his hand lifting and wrapping around the money enclosed in John's fingers seductively, pulling it close so that John could feel his soft breath on his skin. "For twenty," The man licked his lips and smirked, "I'll show you personally."

John swallowed, and, best he could, shifted the car into gear, carefully pulling out into the road again. He wasn't sure what he was doing with a sex worker in the seat next to him, but, for now, he concentrated on the road, eyes darting back and forth from the street signs and lights, to the mystery sitting just inches away.


End file.
